Blood Lies (Dark Brothers of the Light #9) Read online

  BLOOD LIES

  DARK BROTHERS OF THE LIGHT: VOLUME NINE

  BY

  JANRAE FRANK

  BOOKS BY JANRAE FRANK

  LYCAN BLOOD

  Serpent's Quest

  Fireborn Law

  If Truth Dies

  Kynyr's War

  The Exile Returns

  Kady's Vengeance

  The Shadowed Princes

  DARK BROTHERS OF THE LIGHT

  Blood Rites

  Blood Heresy

  Blood Dawn

  Blood Wraiths

  Blood Paladin

  Blood Arcane

  Blood Harvest

  Blood Hope

  Blood Lies

  JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING

  My Sister's Keeper

  Sins of the Mothers

  The Silent Mutiny (previously published as My Father's House)

  Children of the Risen Dead (previously published as Children of Wrath

  BLOOD LIES

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this work and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Publication history

  First edition Daverana Enterprises

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2011 by Janrae Frank

  Cover art by Kaolin Fire

  Layout by Kaolin Fire

  Edited by Steven Beeho and Charlotte Keller

  Copy-editing and proofreading by Mark Prins

  BLOODY ANKSHA

  Blow softly ill wind of omen

  I smell her scent, not born of woman

  The Beast's scent is on the breeze

  Through darkling woods she stalks

  Through halls no sane mon walks

  Her glance, her scent will make you freeze

  A rush of lust brings you to your knees

  She never listens to your pleas

  Anksha, Bloody Anksha stalks the night.

  She'll take your body, soul, and blood,

  leave your corpse lying in the mud.

  Anksha, Bloody Anksha stalks the night.

  Those slain not become her slaves

  Her dominance-link the soul depraves

  In madness longing for her fangs.

  Children listen, adults heed well

  She is pretty, but she is fell,

  Anksha, Bloody Anksha stalks the night

  If underneath the moonlight bright

  You should glimpse her in the night,

  Flee before she nears you, mon

  You have not strength to fight her,

  And no magic will affright her,

  Anksha, Bloody Anksha stalks the night

  Once there were three brothers, Brandrahoon the vampire, Isranon called the Dawnhand, speaker to spirits, and Waejonan the Accursed, first of sa'necari. Isranon defied his brothers and was destroyed, his descendants forced into the darkness. In those days there rose up three women, Asharen, Danae, and Rowan. They built Shaurone to hold back the brothers' darkness. And then there was Abelard who will be born again into his own lineage to ride once more beneath Rowan's banner. Mage-paladin to the God Kalirion the Lord of Light, healing and prophecy, Abelard's return will signal a god-war. Should he fail or perish, then only the Children of the Risen Dead will stand between the Fathers of Darkness and the destruction of the world.

  St. Tarmus of Lorendon

  Priest of Willodarus, God of the Woodlands and Wild Creatures.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A PRETTY FACE IN ILDYRSETTS

  Veranoctem 6, 1077 AQ

  The icy weather along the Blood Coast worsened as the Army of the Renunciate traveled north; they planned to winter just outside Ildyrsetts, on the walled estate of Edvarde Mistward who was a friend to their liege-lord as well as uncle to King Jurgen VI. The number of refugees accompanying them had begun to dwindle as soon as the company started passing the great northern cities, where they could attempt to seek out shelter and warmth away from the battering weather. Snow would soon close the mountain passes to the east, as fresh storms piled more layers of white death higher and higher over the roads.

  The Renunciate, Lord Isranon Dawnreturning, led his patchwork, yet formidable, brigades to force battle with Gylorean Galee, the God-Queen of Minnoras. Sensible myn fled before the threat of her advancing demonic armies. The Sacred King of Rowanhart, possessed of the largest standing army in the northwest, was marching to the aid of Darr and Gormondi. The mighty empire of Shaurone had sent soldiers and paladins to support Beltria. No one cared about the rabidly monotheistic realm of Angrim, which was bearing the brunt of Galee's ravages: Isranon's destination was Angrim.

  Stygean Loosestrife, Lord Isranon's thirteen-year-old apprentice, rode in the middle of the van near his master. The boy tucked a strand of his black, silken hair into the sheepskin-lined hood framing his coppery face. His hand slipped beneath his shirt, seeking the heavy iron of the missing slave collar. It had been gone for many weeks, yet he still expected to find it there. He lowered his head to glance surreptitiously at his nemesis, Jingen Scathwick, his master's other apprentice. They had grown up together, and Stygean had believed them to be friends until a month ago. Now he suspected they never had been. Jingen had been privately goading Stygean into acts of defiance that got him into trouble; the final act had backfired and cost the life of Stygean's father. Jingen turned his gaze upon Stygean, and the boy flinched, focusing his attention to the units riding about them.

  Ocealayen mercenaries, known as kandoyarin, served as the mainstay of the army's forces. Stygean's father, Liuthan, had once been one of the strongest members of their ruling cabal, the Five Captains of the Coast. Liuthan had lead of an abortive coup against the other four, who never suspected that Ocealay had been infiltrated by the sa'necari. They signed up individually and in small groups out of a desire for revenge and to recapture their honor. Stygean avoided them as much as possible, for while they were not likely to do him serious harm, they tended to take out their ire with his father on him verbally – making certain that the son paid for the sins of the father.

  At the very front rode the members of a small lycan battle-clan who served as their scouts. Their chieftain, Nevin 'Scarface' Igguiden, had terrified Stygean for a long time. The gruff wolf had an ugly scar traversing his face from his forehead, across a broken nose to his upper lip that was half-split from a wound that had failed to heal properly. It gave his words a sibilant quality. His black hair reflected his coat color in wolf form, with a bit of grey in it. Nevin's hoarse, growly voice always sounded more ready to rebuke than praise. Yet Stygean's fear had faded into respect after Nevin became his armsmaster, training him in all things martial.

  Stygean, Jingen and Lord Isranon were sa'necari-born: an arcane mutation created by a necromantic, religious cult more than four thousand years ago. In the beginning, all sa'necari were created through a ritual of rape and death, allowing them to shatter and devour the souls of their victims. Each rite they performed made them stronger, more powerful, and eventually nearly unkillable. Over the generations, their genetic structure a
ltered, and their children began to be born sa'necari, gaining their fangs and appetites at puberty.

  His mentor and he were renunciates. They had rejected the ways of their sa'necari race and never committed the rites. Theoretically, Jingen was also. Stygean had good reason to suspect that it was all a ploy with Jingen, and that his former friend would grab himself a rite at the first opportunity. He veered away from those thoughts – for they made his stomach clench – and glanced back over his shoulder at the units riding behind them. Isranon had insisted upon having the most vulnerable units in the middle of the van, which included the medical wagons, the baggage train and the nibari – the genetically altered human cattle of the sa'necari and vampires. They produced blood with such efficiency that they could survive blood loss at far greater levels than normal humans. Unless arcanely modified by their hemophage owners, they were docile and non-assertive to such a degree that they could be led to their deaths without resistance.

  Behind the lycans came the Ymraudes, a company of female vampires, led by their chieftain, Zulaika. Stygean felt more comfortable with the vampires – simply because they were both hemovores – than with the lycans and the humans. The Ymraudes' numbers had grown over the course of the march and reached fifty odd. They often referred to themselves as the 'proud six hundred', so Stygean knew there must be a lot more of them somewhere.

  His fangs emerged from their sheaths, and he licked them in a gesture equally comprised of nervousness and hunger. Two flasks hung from his saddle horn. One was water and the other was blood, which was skillfully preserved by a mage spell. Preserved blood was a poor substitute for sinking his fangs into flesh and lapping it fresh from the wound. However, it was better than nothing and kept his bio-alchemy in balance.

  Stygean had mixed feelings about Amiri, the Ymraude shaman, riding on the lead medical wagon. On the one hand, it had intrigued him from the beginning to discover someone with skin darker than his own deep bronze. She had black skin and nappy hair that she wore in cornrows and a wealth of thin braids heavily laden with wood and ceramic beads that tended to clack loudly when she shook her head vigorously. Amiri seemed to know more about everything than anyone else, and the breadth of her knowledge fascinated Stygean. She also made him feel like a bug under glass at times. Hence, he squirmed inwardly whenever she gave him a long, appraising glance.

  Randilyn, Amiri's nibari, rode beside her on the wagon seat. She noticed Stygean looking at them and grinned. Stygean's cheeks warmed. He felt closer to Randilyn than to anyone else. She was Amiri's polar opposite, with a fair complexion and hair the color of butter cream frosting. Where Amiri was cold and calculating; Randilyn was warm and emotional. The nibari had become a second mother to Stygean following the death of his own. It had been Randilyn, even more than Isranon, who had turned him to the light. That and the promise he had made to his dying father that he would embrace the teaching of the renunciates.

  He had puzzled for months over the Ymraudes and their nibari, for neither had any males among them. Stygean had eventually wheedled the information from Randilyn: Ymraude nibari were made, not bred. They were certainly different from any other nibari he had ever known. For one thing they were audacious and capable of defending themselves. They actually argued with their masters, which completely amazed him.

  Sometimes Stygean thought they ought to find another word for them. The nibari of his experience were the genetically altered human cattle of the sa'necari and vampires. For thousands of years, all forms of aggression and assertiveness had been bred out of them, replaced by utter compliance and docility.

  He slowed his horse, dropping back to ride beside Randilyn's wagon. She smiled down at him, reached beneath the seat and brought out a paper wrapped package.

  "Go easy on it, Stygean. We won't be able to get more until we reach Lord Edvarde's in a few hours."

  Stygean leaned in the saddle to accept the gift, a huge grin on his face. "Candy?"

  "Honey hearts."

  * * * *

  The pines and ivy-drenched oaks had, over the centuries, slowly overpowered the maples that once dominated the forest. Here and there, Stygean could see the immense, gnarled trunks of old growth maples with their twisted fans of branches. It made him wonder what it would look like come spring. Randilyn and Isranon had pointed out the interesting aspects of the natural world to him so often that Stygean had begun to pay attention and notice them for himself.

  The ground rose steadily and the forest began to thin. Captain Luck Settlesby raised his arm, giving a short wave, and the army halted. Isranon gestured for the officers and his apprentices to ride forward. Stygean hunched in the saddle, eyes wide and mouth tight. Jingen, riding beside him, had his head high and shoulders back. Nevin glanced from Stygean to Jingen and then nudged his horse close to Stygean's.

  "Head up, lad. Sit straight. Don't slump."

  Stygean flinched and obeyed.

  Jingen snickered. He enjoyed it when one of the adults corrected Stygean. It assuaged the sense of betrayal Jingen felt so keenly. They had been conspirators together, plotting the death of the filthy renunciate. They were going to be heroes to their race, to their sa'necari philosophy, avengers of their slain parents – Stygean's mother and Jingen's father – and it had been a glorious rush when Jingen set everything up for Stygean to ambush Isranon. Instead of killing Isranon, Stygean had fled the tent weeping like a little girl and disappeared down the aisles between the tents. Afterward, Stygean had rejected Jingen, his plans and everything that made them sa'necari. Jingen felt a sharp bitterness over it.

  Nevin's gaze fixed upon Jingen with disdain. "Stygean, you're worth ten of this little wanker. Act it!"

  Jingen's expression turned sullen as the tables were turned by the grotesque lycan.

  Stygean smiled and the wolf gave him a pat on the back.

  "Good lad." Nevin gave him a second pat before moving up beside Isranon and the second most important mon in the army: General Nans Gryphonheart.

  She was a cinnamon-haired, sapphire-eyed mon and tall mon – though not by Sharani standards – five foot eleven inches. The bastard cousin of King William Gryphonheart of Gormond's Reach. Now the full truth – which had only been known to close friends – was out: she was yuwenghau, a demi-god; the wilderkin daughter of Willodarus, God of the Woodlands and Wild Creatures.

  With Nans leading, the Army of the Renunciate emerged from the forest and crossed the wide swath of snow-covered ground with their banners snapping in the chill afternoon breeze. The intense whiteness of strong sunlight reflecting on the clean snow of a tremendous swathe of open ground temporarily blinded Stygean. He blinked, and as his vision cleared, could see the manor house of Lord Edvarde sitting upon the crown of the next hill, defended by crenellated walls. A sturdy portcullis interrupted the line of dour, gray stone, to which the frost-browned skeletons of Ostonish ivy clung precariously.

  Welcoming shouts erupted from the walls when they drew near. The gates swung open.

  Stygean gazed at the high walls of the outer courtyard with keen interest. The members of Gryphonheart's Rowdies, the former freeranger units that formed the core of the army, had spoken of nothing else for the past several days, and now they were there. Isranon always spoke highly of the loremaster, Lord Edvarde; so between his master and the Rowdies, Stygean had taken the talk about Edvarde to heart.

  The broad courtyard had snow-clad gardens to his right, locked in the brown of winter slumber, and a stableyard bustling with activity to his left. The stablemyn came out to watch, and the hostler in charge came forward to show them where to put their horses. Stygean dismounted, and a stablemon came up.

  "I'll take him," the mon said and gave the animal a pat. "He'll be in the stalls over there. Ask anyone to help you when you need him again."

  Stygean nodded. It felt almost like being back home the way the servants were deferring to him. Sorrow did a turn with his memories, staining his mood with longing for a home that no longer existed, and then danced away
as Stygean focused on the new things. This was not home. He had a lot to learn here.

  Jeevys the castellan met them in the courtyard. His rotund figure, childlike excitement and cherubic face were the complete opposite of the castellan for Stygean's late father. This caused the boy to wonder how Jeevys managed to keep the staff in order.

  The castellan clapped his hands, grinning at Nans. "An army, Nans! You've got an army! What will it be next? Lord Edvarde is very excited and simply cannot wait to hear your stories." He hustled Nans around and saw Isranon dismounting. "He is feeling better, isn't he? Is he healed?"

  Nans shook her head, causing her cinnamon braid to slide forward over her broad shoulder. "No, Jeevys. But he is a lot stronger. That's a tale for later."

  "We'll have to open every single room of the old barracks halls this time for certain. We may even have to double and triple up. My, my, this is exciting."

  Nans rolled her eyes heavenward. Edvarde would be interrogating everyone he could corner for new stories of heroic adventure and exotic discoveries to record. The mon was insatiable in his quest for tales and strange knowledge.

  Isranon smiled when Jeevys insisted on clasping his arms and then he impulsively hugged the old castellan. "I am glad to be back. I have many stories for Lord Edvarde."

  Jeevys glowed at that. "Oh, splendid!"

  Anksha wrapped her arm around Isranon's waist, and he put his arm around her shoulders. She rubbed her belly and looked up at him. Isranon kissed her forehead. "Not yet, precious."